It sounded a harmless and indeed rather a pleasant weekend. Hazlerigg reflected that you never really know a man until you meet him on holiday. He would not have visualised the quiet, bespectacled Bob Horniman as the life and soul of the public bar at Three Lords Hunting.
After a few more general questions he took his departure.
As soon as he had gone Mr. Mullet, who wasn’t half as deaf as he liked to make out, surfaced briskly and hobbled across to the cupboard. From the top shelf he took down a much-folded copy of his favourite Sunday newspaper and turned to the centre page.
“It be that Lincoln’s Inn murder,” he observed. “Thought it must be the same ’Orniman. A firm of lawyers. Found a body in a box. Fairly rotted away, it says.”
“Well, I never,” said Mrs. Mullet. “What will they do next! Such a nice-looking young man, too.”
“Lawyers,” said Mr. Mullet. “Good riddance if they all killed each other, I say. Snake eat snake.”
At about the same time that Mr. Mullet was making these uncharitable remarks, Inspector Hazlerigg had reached the end of the Sea Wall and was taking a quick look at Bob Horniman’s weekend cottage.
It was shuttered and deserted. Over a strip of sand-blown garden and rank lawn he saw the jetty, and the halyards of a little flag-staff. The sun had gone, merging sea and land in uniform unfriendly grey. With the evening a cold wind had arrived.
Hazlerigg walked back to the police station. It occurred to him that he had an urgent telephone call to make.
III
Sergeant Plumptree sat at Hazlerigg’s desk. In front of him he had a list. It had nearly three hundred names on it, and to almost each name was annexed a telephone number. Sergeant Plumptree looked at the list and sighed. He had already rung fifty-five of the numbers and he was feeling very tired. His ear-drums were buzzing with infernal dialling tones and his throat was sore with enforced bonhomie. He recollected a story he had once read about the wife of the President of the United States who had shaken hands with three thousand guests at a State reception and, when her husband said “Good morning” to her at breakfast, had started screaming hysterically.
He understood exactly how she had felt.
He dialled the next number. “Mrs. Freestone? Oh, it’s Mrs. Freestone’s maid. Could I have a word with Mrs. Freestone? I’m speaking on behalf of Horniman, Birley and Craine. Oh—hello, Mrs. Freestone. I’m very sorry to trouble you. We are trying to trace a telephone call which the firm had some time ago—at the end of February. Saturday, February 27th, to be exact. Can you remember if you rang the firm up about that time? Yes, it is rather a long time ago—but being a Saturday morning we thought it might have stuck in your memory—No—Yes—No, of course you couldn’t be expected to remember every telephone call you made two months ago. Very sorry to have troubled you, Mrs. Freestone.”
Another tick on the list.
“Hullo. Is that Sir Henry Rollaway—Oh, it’s Sir Henry’s man. Would you tell Sir Henry that Horniman, Birley and Craine…”
IV
That same afternoon, Bohun put down the draft will he was perusing and hit the desk softly with the open palm of his hand.
“Of course,” he said. “I knew it meant something.”
“Knew what meant something?” asked John Cove.
“Forty-eight pounds, two shillings and sixpence.”
“Don’t be silly,” said John.
“That’s because you haven’t had an actuarial training,” said Bohun. “Every figure has a meaning. To the discerning eye there is all the difference in the world between a seductive little multiplicand and a sinister prime.”
After a few minutes’ thought he went to look for Mr. Hoffman, whom he found at a table in Mr. Waugh’s room. Mr. Hoffman was thumbing through a batch of cancelled cheques with absent-minded enthusiasm.
“Inspector Hazlerigg told me,” said Bohun, “that when you were examining Abel Horniman’s private bank account, you could only find one item which you couldn’t explain. As I remember, that was a quarterly payment of £48 2s. 6d.”
“That is quite correct.”
“It just occurred to me to wonder,” said Bohun apologetically, “—it seems such an obvious suggestion—but have you tried grossing it up at 3½ per cent?”
Mr. Hoffman looked surprised. “With or without tax,” he said.
“Adding on tax. In view of what you said, I thought it was rather a coincidence.”
Mr. Hoffman’s pencil moved across the paper. Then he clicked the tip of his tongue delicately against the roof of his mouth and said: “Tchk, tchk. Yes, indeed. How very surprising. To think that I never noticed it.”
It was the grudging salute of one mathematician to another.
Henry went slowly upstairs, and across into the partners’ side of the building.
It seemed to him that circumstances were conspiring to force decisions on him; decisions which he had little desire to face.
“Yes,” said Mr. Birley, “what is it?”
“I wondered if I might have a word with you and Mr. Craine.”
“All right,” said Mr. Birley. The thought struck him that Bohun also might be going to give notice. Nothing would surprise him now.
“Certainly,” said Mr. Craine. “What’s the trouble?”
“No trouble really,” said Bohun. And without further preamble he told them of Bob Horniman’s surprising offer made to him that morning. It occurred to him that he might be committing a breach of confidence, and it also occurred to him that in the circumstances it could not matter much.
When Mr. Birley had grasped what was going on he said explosively:
“Bob can’t do that. Really, Bohun. I’m surprised at you.”
Mr. Craine said nothing. He looked thoughtful.
“I should have thought you would have known enough about the Law of Partnership,” went on Mr. Birley, “to know that one partner can’t transfer his share just as if it was so much personal property. His other partners have got some say in the matter, you know. It was different with Abel. He was the founder of the firm and he reserved the right to transmit his share to his son. That was agreed. I never entirely approved of it, but that’s neither here nor there. But Bob’s got no more right to hand it on to you than to Miss Bellbas. I don’t mean to be rude,” continued Mr. Birley—who clearly did—“but you’ve only been here a week. And you’ve hardly been qualified a month.”
He looked to Mr. Craine for moral support, but Mr. Craine, who had been looking at Bohun speculatively, remained silent.
“Of course, in a few years’ time,” said Mr. Birley, “when you’ve—er—proved your metal—we might perhaps consider a salaried partnership.”
“Quite,” said Bohun. “And I much appreciate the confidence in my abilities which inspires the offer. A moment ago you said that you might just as well have offered a partnership to Miss Bellbas. Now I don’t suppose you meant that seriously, but it enables me to put what I have to put quite clearly. Considered as potential partners, the essential difference between myself and Miss Bellbas is that I am in a position to put twenty thousand pounds into the business—as an investment, of course.”
“Why do you suppose,” said Mr. Birley, “that the firm should be in need of twenty thousand pounds?” Curiously, he did not put the question in an offensive or rhetorical manner. He asked it as if he was genuinely in search of information; and Bohun answered in the same tone.
“You know as well as I do, that Abel Horniman borrowed ten thousand pounds from the Ichabod Stokes Trust, and used it to bolster up the finances of the firm.”